


Haven

by tortoisegirl



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoisegirl/pseuds/tortoisegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorschach realizes there are worse places he could be than with Dan.  Written for wm_secretsanta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

Winter has always been something of a paradox for Dan. He's just as susceptible as anyone to the usual aggravations of the season—longer darkness, problematic weather, frozen fingertips—but for Dan the cold of winter has always brought with it the promise of warmth, a promise that year after year leaves him sated with an energy that sustains him through the frozen months. As a child he used to throw open his bedroom’s windows (much to this mother’s annoyance) and let the air in, just so he could wrap himself in blankets and pretend he was a hibernating bear, a burrowing owl; protected in his cocoon of cotton and heat. Warm is comfortable, warm is safe, and even growing older there was nothing so nourishing as a warm house in the middle of winter.

Tonight, though, this is not the case.

Dan yanks off his sweater so fast the seams strain in protest. The button-up follows, accompanied by a grateful sigh when the itchy fabric is peeled away from his skin, then the slacks so that he’s down to just boxers. He sits on the edge of bed, fingers running over his bare skin. His clock blinks at him from the bedside table.

Still 10 minutes before Rorschach’ll be there. Plenty of time to get into costume.

Just the thought of the basement’s cooler air brings a relieved smile to his face as he bounds down to the first floor. The irony of seeking relief from the heat in the middle of a near polar January isn’t lost on him. It’s this distraction that keeps him from noticing the presence in the living room, and why he nearly jumps out of his skin when that presence grates out his name in a loud, alarmed voice.

His hand is already reaching for the nearest blunt object (the lamp could do a good deal of damage if the hit lands just so) by the time his brain registers the familiar figure. He’s perfectly justified in being surprised, really, since it’s quite the break in routine for Rorschach to be early. And in his living room. For all his talk of partnership, Rorschach’s never even accepted the invitations of Dan’s couch for a night, and more than once Dan has gaped as Rorschach limped down the tunnel on some non-lethal and therefore manageable injury. He's still flying like he’s in the middle of an alleyway brawl as he drops his arms, breathing heavily. “Christ, Rorschach, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

Rorschach does not look amused. Dan braces for the lecture on vigilance and preparedness that is sure to come. Feels almost appropriate, then, that Rorschach is settled in the high-backed armchair, if he's going to act the part of a haranguing parent. He tilts up his chin at Dan. “Do you always partake in this indecency when I’m not here?”

Dan blinks before remembering the current state of his clothing. “C’mon man, don’t start," he says, barely resisting rolling his eyes. Pantlessness aside, it’s not like Rorschach’s never seen him without a shirt before. "This is just more comfortable. My skin gets itchy as hell in the winter.”

“Hrn. It’s because you keep the heat on too high. Wasteful.”

Dan shoots a pointed look at his partner occupying the spot right beside the heating vent. Head resting against the back, body slumping into the chair’s curve, he's the picture of heat-drowsy ease. It reminds him of the old orange cat his uncle used to have, the one that would stretch out in front of the fireplace and grow more boneless by the minute as it absorbed the warmth. He’s never seen Rorschach this relaxed before, Dan realizes. It’s surreal. “Doesn’t seem to be going to waste when you’re here.”

At that all the lines of Rorschach’s body stiffen, lifting him up and hardening his posture until he’s ramrod straight on the edge of the seat. His hands fall from the armrests to be shoved in his pockets. The blots appear to be glaring.

Of course a comment like that would ruin it.

“Well, enjoy it here while you can,” Dan says, hoping his disappointment isn’t too obvious, and turns to leave. “Tonight's going to be hell frozen over.”

“Hrm. Daniel.”

He’s standing now. His hands are at his sides, fingers twitching; Daniel’s own fingers curl into the fabric over his hips. Then Rorschach is looking away, dropping his head and fiddling with the sleeve of his trench.

“Put some clothes on.”

\---

His prediction about patrol couldn't be more right, and perched on the edge of a rooftop Dan’s left wondering how it’s possible he was actually too warm earlier. It’s not snowing, a small mercy, but the wind is in full force and whipping around him in a way that makes him forget this city was ever warm. The snowsuit is a blessing, though a painful sting when he touches the exposed skin of his cheeks is the only proof it hasn’t frozen off completely. The wind renders the material of the cowl utterly useless, the tips of his ears tingling unpleasantly after just a few seconds of twitching the lined hood aside to better hear some noise or other.

Every bank in a five-block radius has been hit over the past month, and the talk surrounding the spree has drawn them from their usual sphere, across the East River to this run-down Brooklyn neighborhood. Every bank but one, actually, and logic says that this main-drag bank is next, and that a cold, deserted, Sunday night is the time for a job to go down. But logic doesn’t always apply out on the streets. It’s flimsy evidence that has them out here in the cold, and they both know it.

Growing flimsier by the minute as it becomes obvious that not a damned soul but them is out tonight. The bank’s entryway remains as undisturbed as ever; the entire block is a veritable wasteland of barred storefronts and empty sidewalks. Dan amuses himself by thinking the bits of litter blowing around resemble tumble weeds.

With nothing criminal to focus on, he’s taken to watching Rorschach. He’s hunkered down half a block away up on the utility ledge of a billboard, invisible with the floodlights smashed out to anyone not looking for him.

Or, he would be if he were acting normally.

Boredom is one of those things that Rorschach just doesn’t express. Yet it’s the first thing that comes to mind as the night vision reveals this nonstop fidgeting, this inability to just stay still. He’s constantly shifting his weight and tugging on the hem of the trench as if trying to pull it lower over his legs. There’s a strange cycle going on with this hands, too: gripping the low railing that bounds the platform with one hand, then moving it to his pocket and bringing out the other to hold onto the metal. One hand, then the other, back and forth.

Dan knows the lack of activity isn’t the sole cause of this phenomenon. He’d offered Rorschach a heavier coat before they left the brownstone only to be summarily rebuffed. When he tried to press a thicker wool scarf on him to replace the flimsy silk one, he was treated to a withering inkblot glare and duly informed that “Not even a toddler would wear that, Daniel”.

(Admittedly, the little owl stitched on the scarf’s tail was a bit childish, but it’s not like anyone would see it tucked into the coat.)

Dan’s breath freezes in front of him as he watches, and when Rorschach actually takes off his hat to rub a hand over the back of his head Dan’s had enough, and ducks away from his post.

“Hey,” he says when he pops up long the edge of the platform. The wind batters even worse up here without even the rooftop’s low wall to serve as a windbreak. Dan feels like he’s being pinned against the faded ad at his back as he settles beside Rorschach. “Anything?”

“There’s activity the next block over. Hear it?”

Dan slips his hood off for a few seconds to free his ears. “You’d think they’d make an effort to be quiet if they were planning on pulling a job.”

“You’re still giving them that kind of credit. Cute.” Shifting weight, frozen grit grinding under his shoes as he moves. “But would’ve made a move by now if they were after the bank. Unlikely they’re anything more than bored and noisy.”

Daniel watches as Rorschach wraps a hand around the railing only to remove it a minute later, cold-stiffened leather creaking audibly. Dan’s own fingers twitch in sympathy. “If we’re gonna be here much longer there’s some spare winter gear back in Archie. You must be freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

With something like guilt (and something like anger) it occurs to Dan that Rorschach’s behavior stems from Dan’s earlier comment about the heat. It would be just like the stubborn bastard to try and prove that he doesn’t need something as frivolous as decent heating by toughing out freezing temperatures in stupidly inadequate clothes. Not wanting to make things worse Dan doesn’t press it, but it gets harder and harder not to say something as Rorschach’s fidgeting continues, so unlike him. Normally during stakeouts like these Rorschach’s intensity is palpable, his reservoir of energy crackling as it builds in anticipation of the strike. The weather seems to have tamped down on that energy tonight, reducing it to a restless frustration that’s appears to be getting worse. When a pigeon flutters up to land on the platform—third one they’ve seen tonight, Dan notes—Rorschach actually reaches to swat at it.

“Don’t these things ever sleep?”

“They’re city birds. Who sleeps in this city?” He casts a sidelong glance at the mess of twigs nestled among the support beams. Decides not to point out that they’re disturbing a nesting area.

A frustrated huff clouds the air with vapor. “Our targets, apparently.”

From a side street a trashcan makes a clanging racket as it’s rolled around by the wind, while somewhere closer a hacking cough cuts through the air. A pair of pigeons snug in a crook of the metal frame sway under the assault, momentarily capturing Rorschach’s attention.

Almost imperceptible over the howl: “Don’t they get cold?”

It doesn’t sound like he meant it to be heard. Daniel’s torn between biting out an _I told you so_ and handing over his own coat. “Look man, I have the stuff to keep you comfortable out here. There's no need to pretend you're not freezing your ass off.”

“Don’t need to be _comfortable_ , Daniel. And don’t think I’m going to become _dependent_ on you.” Spat out at him, sharpened like it’s meant to hurt. It does, deep in his gut.

Dan gulps down a breath that feels like barbed wire. “Is that what you think? That it’s some kind of dependency to accept help from me?” He runs his fingers between the hood and the cowl until the cold air becomes too much. “You know that’s ridiculous, right?”

“I don’t need—”

“It’s not just about what you need, or what you think you don’t need. It’s about…” The waver in his voice is something that can’t be blamed on the wind. “Fuck, Rorschach, we’re partners. We’re supposed to take care of each other like that.”

Rorschach’s looking more and more like he’s about to shut down on himself as he draws further into his coat, but there’s too much on the tip of his tongue for Dan to stop now. “Rorschach, I—”

They both see it at the same time; Dan cuts himself off as he swivels his gaze down to the street, leaning forward slightly. A figure is shuffling down the empty sidewalk. Likely a man, if he were to guess from this distance, though the bulky layers make it hard to be sure. Dan’s mind immediately conjures up _injured_ based on the way the person’s walking, and it takes a few more seconds of watching before he realizes the shaky, halting gait is due to the coughing fit that’s wracking the man’s body. It’s no long stretch to think that a criminal would use a disguise like this to case a joint, but as the man slumps down against the security grating of the store adjacent to the bank, Dan doubts this is the case. Rorschach’s watching just as carefully when Dan glances over, but his posture says he agrees with Dan and doesn’t see a threat.

The coughing continues noticeably as the wind goes into a lull. “Dammit,” Dan breathes. “Can’t hear anything over that. And he could get in the way if anything does go down. Think we should go tell him to move along?”

Rorschach studies the man; the coughing appears to be getting worse. “We don’t want any civilians around if the targets do show up,” he agrees. “Can’t risk innocent casualties.”

Down at street level Rorschach falls half a step behind him, his signal that Daniel’s going to be doing most of the talking. Dan sets an expression that he hopes is somewhere between stern and sympathetic as he steps up to the doorway. A handful of awkward seconds pass in which the man (and it is a man, older than Dan would have expected) barely keeps from coughing up a lung, then hauls himself up and cracks a yellow-toothed grin.

“Well if it ain’t New York’s very own heroes,” he says in a deep, drawn-out voice. “Didn’t know you came ‘round there parts, but it sure is nice to see ya.”

“Yes, well,” Nite Owl gulps, “we suspect there might be some activity around here tonight that might require our involvement. If we’re right about that we wouldn’t want, uh, anyone getting in the way.

“Sure doesn’t surprise me, being this neighborhood and all.”

“Have you got somewhere to go, sir?” He’s hoping, with a touch of awkward desperation, that the man gets the hint.

The man sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “There’s always somewhere to go in this city, young man. Unfortunately they’re all ‘bout as cold as this doorway right now, and it seems as a good a place as any to rest my tired ol’ self.”

“There’s a homeless shelter two blocks east of here,” Dan offers, remembering their earlier reconnaissance of the neighborhood. In the corner of his vision Rorschach is unwinding his scarf, handing it over to the man as another coughing fit doubles him over.

The man straightens up nodding and holding the scarf to his face. “Went up there earlier tonight, had the door slammed in my face. Seems they’re not open to everyone, even if their sign says so.”

“They wouldn’t take you in?” Rorschach asks, beating Dan to it. His voice is tight. He pulls himself up straighter at the man’s sad smile. “There’s another one over on Clarkson Street.”

Daniel distantly wonders how Rorschach knew about that; then again, he wouldn’t put it past him to spend his free time memorizing the maps of all five boroughs.

The man shakes his head. “Now that’s a full ten blocks away. And I know for a fact that there’s some kids between here and there that’ll give me a hell of a time if they see me walkin’ by. Call me a coward if you want, but I ain’t young no more, and these old joints just ain’t up to the task of dealing with them.” He jerks his head back towards the shouts and chatter they’d heard earlier. “You hear the ruckus they’re already making for yourself. Not worth the trouble for those of us who ain’t heroes.”

“We’ll take you there,” Rorschach says immediately.

“What?” Dan hisses at him. He leans in to keep his voice low. “What about the stakeout? If those gangbangers over there really are-”

“It can wait. Odds are nothing’s going to happen tonight anyway.” His voice is firm. Black slides over white as it always has, revealing nothing. Dan’s struck with a sense of absurdity that he ever thought he could read anything in the shapes. “Don’t recommend you try to take on any gangs by yourself,” Rorschach goes on, “but stay if you want.”

As Rorschach turns to converse with the man in low tones Dan’s fairly certain he already knows what his response is going to be.

\---

It takes twenty minutes for the man and his two escorts to make the ten block journey; Daniel behind him and Rorschach in front, looking over his shoulder every so often and never pulling too far ahead. As predicted, they earn the glares of the rowdy pack grouped on a few front stoops. They’re used to being thought of as ridiculous, but Dan watches with something tight in his chest as Rorschach moves to their charge’s side, squares his shoulders, and glares fearlessly right back at them.

“Never thought I’d reach here in one piece,” the man says once he’s on the front steps of the shelter, smiling down at them happily. The worker who answered their knock eyes them through the cracked door. “Thank you gentlemen, and I sure hope you find whatever you’re looking for out here.” The rush of heat that floods out when the door is opened makes Daniel’s skin prickle. “A real haven after that damned cold,” he hears, then the door is closed and he and Rorschach are alone.

Dan lets out a sigh and runs a hand over his face. He feels more tired than a night of no real action should warrant, and it’s not until he shakes his head and looks around that he notices Rorschach, back to him, shoulders slumped. He looks beat too, like whatever was supporting that brave heroic stance he held all the way there has been pulled out from under him.

“Hey man, let’s go home,” Dan says. “Archie’s this way.” He takes two steps towards his partner, but Rorschach moves too to maintain the distance between them.

“You go home, Nite Owl. Not much more we can do out here tonight.”

“What? You’re coming with me, right?” Dan blinks as he processes what’s going on. “You’re not walking all the way back to Manhattan.”

“I’ve walked the distance before,” he says simply, though there’s something in his voice that’s not simple at all, and he starts down the cold, empty street.

The need to keep his partner by his side is suddenly overwhelming, clawing up Dan’s chest and into his throat. A burst of wind flays the heat from his skin, and it's just three strides before he’s caught up with him and his hand is snapping out to grab Rorschach’s wrist. “Tonight you’re not. C’mon.”

And maybe Dan’s more persuasive than he thought, because Rorschach doesn’t pull away, doesn’t just hit him and storm off. He’s not resisting at all, in fact, as if he wants to be pulled back out of the wind’s grip. Rorschach’s fingers curl until they’re resting on Daniel’s wrist. Daniel imagines he can feel a pulse there, fast and uncertain; but that’s just silly, he shouldn’t be able to feel a thing through the winter gloves.

He tugs on his wrist to guide him towards the Owlship. Rorschach sways for just a moment, then follows.

\---

They’re quiet on the ride back, heat seeping into their skin.

\---

Rorschach trudges up the stairs ahead of Daniel without looking back. He’s bypassed the kitchen and is already in the armchair next to the heater by the time Dan joins him. Any other time this would get a raised eyebrow from Dan, but tonight it doesn’t even register.

A decided weariness pervades Rorschach. Not the pleasant exhaustion of hard-worked muscles, but a hollow discontentment, a draining that draws from the very core.

Dan feels it. For all the layers that paint his partner, something out there in the cold has been stripped away, plucked and pulled like dead leaves from a branch. It’s not something Dan can see as much as feel—like a phantom heartbeat, undetectable but for the fact that he knows it’s there. It makes something inside him quiver, as if he were the one left bare in the cold, and he wants to reach out and feel this new form and let his own shaking be felt; to convey in a way Rorschach will understand the knowledge he’s there, and that this is okay.

“You’re welcome to, uh. Stay here. If you want.”

Rorschach is quiet and motionless for so long he might have fallen asleep. Maybe he’s planning the most effective way to make his refusal hit home, some downcast part of him supplies, when there comes a quiet: “Thank you.”

Dan just nods, and there doesn’t seem to be anything left to do but go to bed, when he notices the length of white fabric knotted loosely around Rorschach’s throat that looks thicker and cleaner than it usually does. With a sudden smile he realizes it’s the owl-themed scarf that was rejected earlier that night, donned to replace the one he’d left with the homeless man. It’s unlikely Rorschach’ll want to keep this one though, Dan ponders. He’ll have go find a silk one for him tomorrow. But for now he just smiles and says wearily: “See, I told you no one would be able to see the owl,” then turns for the steps before Rorschach can be indignant at him.

“Daniel.”

Heart jumping into his throat, inexplicable. He turns and Rorschach is sitting straight in the chair looking up at him. For a long second the groan of the heater is the only sound.

“Keep your clothes on while I’m here.”

Dan laughs, but puts on his striped pajamas to brush his teeth and dig the extra blankets out of the closet and wish Rorschach good night.

(He sleeps naked though, wrapped up in his blankets, and falls asleep wondering if Rorschach’s ever enjoyed the feel of heat against his bare skin.)


End file.
